


Has, Has Not

by Curlsandcollege



Series: Their New Faerghus Repression [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dorovain Weekend 2020, F/M, Family, Guilt, Kids, Post-Canon, crest baggage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlsandcollege/pseuds/Curlsandcollege
Summary: If the child looks like Dorothea then he'll feel better. He can't let himself imagine the alternative.Sylvain struggles with his anxiety and guilt about the possibility that his child may have a crest. Or not. He can't decide which would be worse.One thing remains true, children are not just children in Gautier.Written for the "Family" prompt for Dorovain weekend
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Their New Faerghus Repression [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880089
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48
Collections: DoroVain Weekend 2020, That Old Faerghus Repression





	Has, Has Not

**Author's Note:**

> This is in the same universe as my other DoroVain stories (AKA: That old Faerghus Repression), but can absolutely be read solo!

Dorothea is convinced it’s a girl.  
  
Six months pregnant and she’s barely showing, especially in gowns, but they can feel movement now. It’s kind of fun to have their own little secret, just for them. Frankly, everyone in the household knows by now, or at least suspects, but they’re all too polite to say anything.  
  
It’s considered bad luck to bring up a pregnancy before it’s announced. Unforgivably rude.  
  
So everyone gossips about the new _heir_ and Sylvain pretends not to hear it because his blood pressure rises when he hears the word and his impending fatherhood feels so delightful when he’s tucked into bed with his wife thinking about how cute her face will look on a tiny chubby baby but it’s absolutely awful when he thinks about the implications of everything for too long.  
  
Sylvain knows this is a person, a child that he’s vowed to love and he _does_ .  
  
But he’s a noble and his child will be a noble and he knows that from the second she’s born she could very well be deemed a failure.  
  
Or worse, a success. 

* * *

“I swear if the baby doesn’t have your hair it will be a tragedy,” Sylvain says softly, running his fingers through her curls, enjoying how they react and get frizzy and unravel under his touch. Her hair is the longest he’s ever seen and even thicker than usual and Dorothea _hates_ it. Complains constantly that it’s too heavy and she’s going to let Ingrid cut it to her ears if it gets any longer.  
  
Dorothea rolls her eyes at her husband’s theatrics, and shifts slightly. She’s eight months pregnant and everything hurts, moving most of all. “Curls are curls, but redheaded girls are so cute!” She smiles mischievously, tugging his hair just a little to make her point.  
  
Sylvain lets himself picture it for just a moment. His wife is the most beautiful woman in the world, intoxicating even as she protests daily that she’s getting bigger and dumber by the second and would lose her head if it wasn’t attached to her neck, and _they say daughters steal your beauty, didn’t you know that, she’s stealing my beauty Sylvain._  
  
In his head, when he lets himself imagine, he pictures a tiny little Dorothea with a mountain of brown hair braided back like Ingrid’s used to be and chubby cheeks. Walking hand in hand with him and Dorothea, going to the village and listening to music and poetry and they are all happy and content together. Not nobles, not rulers, just a sweet little family with two beautiful brunettes.  
  
She always looks like Dorothea in his head, but smaller, cuter.  
  
He never lets himself picture her any older than three or so. Never old enough to hold a sword, or a lance. Or to cast spells. Or go to Fhirdiad and learn that friendship is just another weapon to be cultivated. Certainly never old enough to court-  
  
Sylvain throws his head back in exasperation, covering his eyes with his hands. “Don’t say it, the goddess would absolutely think it’s funny to give me nothing but beautiful daughters. It’d serve me right. And they’ll be ours, the result of two perfect physical specimens, the worst looking they’ll be is too tall. Everyone will fall all over them. This is my punishment for leading on countless women, I know it.”  
  
“Eh, you led on some men on in your day too.” Dorothea points out. She thinks this is funny, his anxiety. She lets him be heard, but writes it off as the nerves of a man in over his head. Even so, she cuddles closer to him, hips popping as she moves.  
  
“Not so many. And they didn’t think they were marrying me- it was. Well we both always knew what it was. I was far crueler to women. I hated them more.” Sylvain argues.  
  
What would it be like to have a wife who didn’t spar with words as well as she did a sword? He doesn’t want to know. Sylvain likes to win, and Dorothea knows this well. She’s learned it in countless ways over the years. She’s found her own way to win. She knows how to compose his moods like she does a song, distracting and diverting and fixing his emotions right where she wants them.  
  
He loves her for it.  
  
Dorothea laughs, letting him have his point, “Yes you were an absolute terror to all women. But daughters are not a punishment- they’re wonderful. Children are just children.”  
  
Sylvain takes in his wife, who’s childhood was so very different from his own, far harder in some ways but far easier in others. He wants to protect her, protect both of them from the truth.  
  
He knows children are not just children in Gautier. 

* * *

  
  


Life has never given Sylvain anything without conditions, and so he shouldn’t be surprised when this too is so completely unexpected.  
  
A son.  
  


A son with a few soft wisps of red hair and dark eyebrows and eyes that are getting browner by the day.  
  
A son with his face, squished and round. But unmistakably Gautier. 

The first time someone, well meaning surely, mentions the old wives’ tale that crest bearers tend to have a strong resemblance, just look at the Margrave and _his_ son, Sylvain has to excuse himself from the room. He hides in a guest bedroom and sobs, alone.  
  
Her comments stung a wound so festered and rotten that it fades to a dull hum in the background at best. It’s easily poked, it always hurts. Today it feels unbearable. Tears roll down his face while he remembers that his brother too had red hair and was a first born son but wasn’t quite enough and it destroyed his life. It made him a monster long before he actually became one. It destroyed Sylvain too- in a way. But Sylvain got to live. Sylvain had time to hate and destroy and take his anger out on the world. He was welcomed back to society with open arms, status unaffected. His free pass sits in his blessed blood and it wasn’t going anywhere.  
  
Sylvain takes a gasping breath, but his tears won’t stop.  
  
He just… he’d hoped for a daughter, so being crestless or crested wouldn’t be as large a blow. Eldest daughters rarely stayed heirs for long. He’d hoped for a child that was so unquestionably Dorothea’s that there was no chance she’d have a crest and no one would ever be disappointed at missed expectations and Sylvain could prove to himself that he could love a child for who they were, not what was or wasn’t in their blood.  
  
Sylvain knows better than to hope. Hope always ended like this. 

The child looks just like him. Andres Gabriel Gautier very well might have a crest.  
  
If he does, the Margrave will step down. Sylvain will inherit at 30 rather than 30 years from now when his father takes his final stubborn breath. Andres will, from infancy, be a tool used by his father to accomplish his goals. Sylvain will be no better than his father. The preemptive guilt bubbles over into more tears.  
  
Each what if is more painful than the last. 

Dorothea finds him, and for once doesn’t demand answers. She just sits with him, stroking his hair, holding Andres in one arm, comforting the only family she has.  
  
Poor Dorothea. What a mess she’s chosen to marry. She gave up everything to come here and for what? For a family coated in ice and resentment? For a husband who cannot handle the possibility that he’ll achieve his goals on his child’s back? For a son who’s fate has already been decided, his worthiness still a secret to be known long before his talent, nature, or potential.  
  
Sylvain manages to croak out half a thought, voice hoarse from crying, “I don’t even know what I want for him.”  
  
What’s worse? Life with a crest, or life free of one? 

“He’ll do what he wants to regardless of your wishes, he’s ours.” Dorothea smiles softly, and kisses Sylvain on the cheek. 

That helps, in a way. Sylvain knows that he’s hardly the shining beacon of _obedience._

“I could pretend it didn’t matter before. But he’s here and he’s real and- Dorothea I love him so much and the world is terrible and why would we do that to a child? I thought this time… I thought I’d be able to outrun it. That it would be abundantly clear that she didn’t have a crest and she’d be yours and it could be different. We could be different. But he’s a boy and he looks-” 

Dorothea places Andres into Sylvain’s arms and runs her hand over his soft little head. She’s incredibly wise, his wife. She knows how to comfort him, and how to make him be just a little less selfish when he needs to be.  
  
“You’re focusing on you not him- and that’s fine. But he’s our kid, and he has a crest or he doesn’t and it shouldn’t really matter anyway. I know that it does, but can we keep pretending it doesn’t?” 

Sylvain sighs, that sounds better, honestly.  
  
“Yeah, we can do that.”  
  
He can, he realizes, feeling his son squirm and turn bright red and let out the loudest fart he’d ever heard.  
  
They belly laugh together as Andres settles back into sleep. How had he been so afraid that he couldn’t love a child? How could he cast this child aside or not favor him or not give him every ounce of attention that he possibly could?  
  
When they exit the guestroom Sylvain briefly locks eyes with his father, who hadn’t yet spared his first grandchild a glance.

He’s never hated him so much in his life.

* * *

They get to wait a little because Dorothea insisted Linhardt carry out the test. They get three whole weeks of reprieve, two longer than most.  
  
Sylvain has fallen hopelessly in love with his son. He’s clingy, the nursemaid is already chiding him for spoiling his child. Dorothea reminds Sylvain that he has responsibilities and that Andres will still breathe if Sylvain isn’t watching every single rise and fall of his chest.  
  
Sylvain has trouble believing her. He accuses Dorothea of the same. She’d only accepted a wetnurse after Sylvain explained that Marie was a single mother who really needed the work.  
  
They’re a mess. Andres hasn’t slept one night in his nursery yet, instead in a basket by their bedside. They keep insisting one more week, one more night, we’re not ready to let someone else care for him, he’s only three weeks old, can’t it wait a little longer?  
  
Linhardt unpacks a whole mess of instruments, laying them out on Sylvain and Dorothea’s bed.  
  
Crest detection. Easy. Simple. Instant.  
  
This process, thankfully, is always private. Just the parents and the child. And the tester.  
  
They’re especially lucky, Linhardt is one of Dorothea’s closest friends. He scares Sylvain, his eyes always weird and knowing. He confuses Sylvain, obsessed with crests but for none of the reasons that make sense. He makes Sylvain jealous, crested heir of a Count who just _walked away_ from all of that. Linhardt disappeared for a year, then walked into Garreg Mach and declared he’d very much like to be a professor now. 

What was it like to live your life exactly as you wanted to? 

“I will need blood. Ugh. I don’t like that part but it is necessary. The process is fairly simple, Dorothea if you could hold Andres? He’ll cry of course, Mothers often prefer to hold their children while that occurs or so I’ve noticed.”  
  
Dorothea, unfamiliar with this custom even if it was done to her as a child, has not dressed up for the occasion as tradition would indicate. Dorothea blends in remarkably well with the nobility, learning customs so flawlessly that even his elitist parents don’t complain very often. She’s a trendsetting darling of court, already, as they both knew she would be. 

She hasn’t dressed to receive an heir, or abandon a child to a lifetime of second class treatment. She dresses as she has for the past several weeks, like a mother. Tired, comfortable, in a bodice that easily unlaces. 

Sylvain isn’t sure if it is a rebellion or ignorance but he followed suit that morning. He could easily transition to hunting after they’re done. He dressed to receive a friend, a common one, for a casual meeting.  
  
Not the moment that would determine the course of his son’s life.  
  


Linhardt pulls out a needle and pokes Andres in the heel, drawing a tiny drop of blood. Andres screams, face red with exertion as he wails in pain. Dorothea rocks him as Sylvain makes soft noises and they’re both so distracted by comforting their son that they miss the test entirely. 

* * *

“I did say I would step down once you had a crested heir.” 

Sylvain hates his father’s office- nothing good has ever come of being in this oppressive room. Nothing without a thousand strings and conditions and ten layers of cruelty.  
  
Sylvain surveys the room but says nothing.  
  
“I am pleased with you, Sylvain. Not yet thirty, not yet married a year, already with a true heir. I always worried for your path, but you have lived up to my expectations. You just needed proper incentive.”  
  
This is it then, in the span of a morning he’s been given everything he’s ever wanted. The title, the control, his father’s approval for what that was ever worth.  
  
Less by the day, he’s realizing. 

  
The power to make peace with Sreng. His clandestine friend will be so proud. And perhaps just the littlest bit jealous, Sylvain hopes bitterly. Sylvain will come into power first, now he’s just waiting on Sreng. That’s surprising. That’s fun. 

“Are you listening to me?”  
  
“Yeah, you’ll step down by winter, we’ll have to write the capital and start the living succession process. I get it. Oh, you think they’ll drag me through a succession hearing? Felix’s was fun, remember that? When I basically made Sir Gustave admit that he would have killed Felix had there been any rumor that Felix and Annette slept together, proving Felix’s fine moral character and chastity. I’d like that kind of thing for myself. I think I’ve earned that much.”  
  
The Margrave begins rubbing his temples and Sylvain realizes he has aggravated his father. Lovely. No consequences anymore, thanks to his dear son who couldn’t hold his head up. 

“You’re being flippant Sylvain.” 

“Eh. I’ll be as flippant as I want. I’ll be Margrave either way.”   
  
His father chuckles darkly, “Yes, well. That is why I ensured you’d work towards your own legacy. You were always so distracted with your flings and your rebellion and your resentment. I’m glad to see you’ve decided to take your role seriously.” 

Sylvain doesn’t want to ask- if he were smarter, he’d just drop it. Let his father play whatever games he wants to play. He doesn’t want to ask, but he does anyway because he simply cannot ever help himself.  
  
“What do you mean by that?”  
  
“Oh I dangled succession in front of you for years to ensure you’d continue the line. Surely you knew?”  
  
Sylvain looks towards his father, and tries to take his measure. He looks oddly pleased with himself, sitting in his ornate chair behind his ginormous desk dressed for full formality. As if he was celebrating. Yes, of course Sylvain knows. His father is not subtle in his intentions. This is not his most elegant plan.  
  
He hates himself because it worked anyway.  
  
A small, perverse part of him always wanted to resist. To fail. To have a long line of uncrested children freed from the burden that he bears. Or to scatter bastards all across Fodlan, crests popping up in villages seemingly at random.  
  
He wants to be strong enough to resist even now. He wants to be a man who patiently waits for succession and stands on his morals. He could have refused to test Andres, Dorothea would have agreed. She’s strong.  
  
But he is not. He never has been. When Linhardt informed them Andres carried a minor crest of Gauiter, Sylvain had felt relief for one shining moment, then a torrent of shame. 

“It doesn’t matter, not really. Your machinations did very little. Dorothea always wanted children. Andres is my son with Dorothea. He happens to have a crest. We’ll have more. They might or might not, it doesn't truly matter.”  
  
His father temples his hands in front of his face, and gives Sylvain a long look.  
  
“It does. You’ll see when you’re Margrave and you’re defending this land and responsible for results. You’ve always been blessed Sylvain, and that continues today. Your first born is crested, praise the goddess. She has spared you the tough choices I had to make.”  
  
Sylvain meets his father’s eyes, anger roiling under his skin. Choices. He referred to his actions as choices. As if he was admitting it.  
  
The goddess didn’t force his father to cast Miklan aside. To flaunt his unworthiness at every step. To point at a baby and say “That child took everything away from you. Destroy him, and you might get it back.”

That wasn’t the goddess. That was all him.  
  
Everything he suffered, all at the hands of his father’s _choices_. 

Sylvain laughs at his father, loudly, rudely. What a terrible man. A foolish one. A cruel one.  
  
His father has worked his whole life to fight off Sreng. To continue the line of the crest of Gautier. 

  
“I love my son enough to not become you. That’s a promise.”   
  
Sylvain exits, wondering how quickly he can undo his father’s legacy.

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing post canon Sylvain because no matter the route HE GOES HOME to Gautier. That's a wild thing to explore. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave a kudos or comment.


End file.
